Review

Any new recording of Scheherazade has to be exceptional, for there is much splendid competition. Temirkanov certainly takes the New York Philharmonic players with him into the sensuous aura of the Sultan's harem, and easily the finest movement is the languorous account of "The Young Prince and the Young Princess", which opens with a lovely, sultry tone from the strings and has a particularly idyllic closing section. The first movement begins well, with weighty, bass-rich brass immediately establishing the Sultan's power and Scheherazade's sinuous voice heard in a nicely believable perspective on Glenn Dichterow's violin. But Temirkanov's broad, spacious reading does not produce the highest voltage and the colourful orchestral events of "The Story of the Kalendar Prince" are also narrated in a rather relaxed manner. The finale opens busily but only begins to generate a really high current near the end, where the gong stroke depicting the shipwreck is shattering, followed by a thunderous volley from the timpani.

The Russian Easter Festival Overture gleams with colour. The opening is persuasively luminous, although the performance takes a time to get really underway; and though the allegro is energetic and very crisply played, the episodic nature of the piece is not disguised. Again, it is the closing pages, when the chorale sings out on the brass against splashes from the tam tam, that Termirkanov really pulls everything together. The recording, made in New York's Manhattan Center, the scene of many famous Bernstein sessions, is impressively wideranging and spacious, if not quite in the demonstration class. When making comparisons Beecham's marvellous Kingsway Hall, London EMI version (full of charisma) must be mentioned, although surely now due for mid-price reissue.

So, a clear first choice still rests with Mackerras on Telarc: dynamic and gripping and with no lack of voluptuous romantic ardour. It has a thrilling finale, with the closing reverie drawing a gentle closing evocation of the satiated Sultan lying blissfully in the arms of his young wife. Mackerras's coupling is an equally brilliant account of the Capriccio espagnole. At mid-price Reiner should not be forgotten—his account has much in common with Beecham's in its seductive phrasing. Also, the famous ambience of Orchestra Hall, Chicago, adds to an allure which has comparable excitement. The coupling here is Debussy's La mer, which has great evocative feeling, though clearly its geography is Mediterranean.

Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov began his life as a sailor, having continued a family tradition by becoming a cadet in the Imperial Russian Navy at the tender age of twelve. Although the boy was exposed to amateur music-making and even some piano lessons in his early years, he had shown much more interest in academic subjects than the arts. In St. Petersburg, while still a cadet, he heard his first operas, which developed a deeper appreciation for music in the lad. But although he found time for some limited training, spent his pocket money on scores for study, and even began work on what would later become the first Russian symphony, he decided that a naval career would provide a more reliable living and found himself assigned to the sailing steamship Almaz, on which he spent three years helping to further Russian interests in Europe and the Americas.

Eventually, as we know, Rimsky-Korsakov turned to composition as a full-time career, but his conversion was slow and tortuous. He maintained his connection with the Navy for over 25 years, serving for most of that time as Inspector of Naval Bands, a position that was created for him and which he executed eagerly and well, even though when he was appointed, he knew nothing of band instruments. (He lost no time in learning about them, however, and it is typical of the man that he taught himself enough about orchestration to write a classic text on the subject, even though he was completely ignorant of it when he began his first symphony.)

In 1883, Rimsky-Korsakov accepted a lucrative position as Assistant Musical Director of the Imperial Chapel, but quickly became bored with his new job and suffered a lengthy dry spell, producing very little until 1887, when Alexander Borodin died. Spurred by the necessity of completing his friend's opera Prince Igor, he returned to his work full-force, and soon produced some of his best-known works, including Scheherazade.

Although the work and its individual sections bear programmatic titles, and the composer initially wrote an introductory scenario, he later stated that he had not attempted to paint any specific images, but rather wished the title to merely guide the listener's attention in the general directions in which his own had wandered. Nevertheless, two recurring themes, both introduced in the first few measures, are worth special attention. The piece opens with a stately motive in the low brass, which represents the disaffected Sultan who vowed to kill every woman he wed until he was captivated by Scheherazade's stories. (Rimsky-Korsakov felt that one of his best orchestral effects was achieved by the silence of the grand pause that breaks this brief passage just before the end, and it is worth contemplating how much less menacing it would sound without that pause and the two notes that follow it.)

Immediately following the Sultan's theme, almost interrupting it, is the gentle and passionate violin solo that represents the Princess herself, surely one of the loveliest melodies ever penned. Listening to these two themes, and the sweeping music of Scheherazade's tales that transports us bodily into the magic of the 1001 Tales of the Arabian Nights, one can only wish that Rimsky-Korsakov had had the time to produce settings for the other 997.